What am I to you? Honestly, what does this all mean to you?
Here I am, giving everything I have and you’re still not impressed?
I understand that my form isn't refined, that I could hone my skills.
To be honest, fuck you. It makes me so angry to think about how you violate my trust like that.
I could give you everything I have, dig into the deepest parts of me, be willing to share them.
After all of that, you look at my handwriting, at my illustrations, at my grammar and have it all invalidated.
Why? At what cost? What would you have me do? Go back to school? Really hammer out that shading?
Fuck you.
I hate that you think like that, that you can't see what's right in front of you without judgement, that you can’t just feel.
You are lost already, why are you here? How did you get so far? Is someone forcing you to do this? Did you not come here of your own volition?
How about you do it then? Tell me what hurts you the most, tell me the things you can't grapple with, that haunt you.
I’ll think they are beautiful, that you are brave for sharing, that the fact they can inspire creation makes you amazing.
I wish I could shit on this hypothetical art in the way you shit on my wholey real art, but I can’t.
I can't look Godliness in the eye and tell it to refine.
So this is your chance, leave, begone, vanish.
I will miss you, if you must know the truth.
I'm sorry you have grown callous.
Sorry I couldn't break through.
Whatever the thing is that reaches your soul, I hope it comes soon.
Nothing I could have made would be that for you, I can't help you.
Okay?